


The Breaker of Bonds

by Canttouchthis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Blood and Violence, Canon Divergence - Battle of Hogwarts, Dark, Dark Comedy, Dubious Consent, Endgame Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Forced Marriage, Inspired by Game of Thrones, Magical Bond, Minor Character Death, Romance, Skilled Ginger, Tags May Change, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:42:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29526567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canttouchthis/pseuds/Canttouchthis
Summary: In Voldemort’s kingdom, Hermione and Draco are nothing but battered trinkets for the king’s entertainment.But there are more players than the mad king knows, and the game is far from over.A Voldemort wins AU inspired by Game of Thrones.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 53
Kudos: 60





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lilithmorningstar69](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilithmorningstar69/gifts).



> So [Lilithmorningstar69](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilithmorningstar69/pseuds/Lilithmorningstar69) reached out to me with this plunny, and as much as I tried to ignore it....well, I couldn't. It was too good. 
> 
> This fic will be **dark**. It's inspired by Game of Thrones so that means...expect anything. And everything.
> 
> Thank you to [PTwritesmore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PTwritesmore/pseuds/PTwritesmore) for the beta assist.
> 
> I will do my best to add tags as we go but please feel free to reach out to me on [tumblr](https://canttouchthis87.tumblr.com/) if you have any specific questions.
> 
> And with that, here we go...

Hermione’s not sure why she expects more than mildew covered walls and a tattered bucket. Perhaps all the years of being ridiculed by Draco Malfoy led her to believe Malfoy Manor to be some sort of paragon of the wizarding world. 

Her experience in the Malfoy’s grimey cellar begs otherwise.

A grey-clad Death Eater approaches her cell; his face is masked, but his stubbed hand and cursed scar tells Hermione everything she needs to know.

“Fucking Mudblood,” Rowle spits, roughly opening the cell and grabbing Hermione by the elbow with his only hand. His fingers dig into her forearms, pressing the purpling bruises he embedded into her skin days earlier. 

“How are you today, Rowle?” she asks, her voice scratchy from disuse and dehydration. But it’s all she has left — her voice and her mind. Her magic has been ripped from her, her body left to waste in cells for months. But her mind remains.

He grips her arm tighter and she bites her tongue to keep from wincing. “You think you’re funny, Mudblood?” he hisses, his sour breath and dry lips press against her ear. They go through this dance whenever she is moved; she fights to remind herself she is not broken, that these monsters will not break her.

She ignores his stumped arm pressing against her breast as he tells her, “You’re nothing. No one. But you’ll learn your place.” He laughs and she swallows down a question, forcing her face to remain neutral. “Girl, the Dark Lord has plans for you.”

Hermione eyes the Death Eater carefully. “What plans?” she asks.

His snarl sends a chill down her spine. “I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise,” he murmurs. “Let’s go.”

He forcibly drags her through the cellar, past vacant cells in various states of disrepair, until they reach a dilapidated staircase. 

“Climb,” he barks, smacking her in the arse when she stalls. She tumbles against the steps, banging her shaky knees; the structure rustles from the impact.

“It looks like it’ll fall apart!” she complains, looking up the ominous stairwell towards the door that presumably leads to the Manor itself. 

She suddenly misses her bucket; the tattered walls and smell of her own waste. 

“I said, you fucking bitch, move!” He grabs her by the neck, as though she were a fucking cat, and starts yanking her up the stairs. 

“Fine,” she winces, grabbing at the stairwell, righting herself.

The climb is foreboding, as though each step brings her closer to her doom. She wonders if this slow walk is purposeful, if this is meant as an exercise to break her.

The thought calms her — the idea that she is still seen as a player in this game; that Voldemort or whomever rules in his stead here, believes her to be someone worth breaking.

She lifts her chin and calms her heart, remaining still when Rowle opens the door.

The room is opulunt, everything that the cellar where she languished for the last month or so was not. Gold trimmings and priceless art adorn the walls. Light streams through the uncovered windows, making the room painfully bright to Hermione, whose eyes had long become used to the dark.

It’s all so utterly ridiculous and she pushes down a snort.

“There she is,” Lord Voldemort himself greets her, his strange crown sits atop his head. He’s on a floating throne, the effect of which is comical.

She knows not to say anything; she may provoke Rowle from time to time, but she knows better than to attempt banter with Voldemort himself.

Death Eaters frame the room, standing stoically at attention, masked and clean. Black robes dot the sea of grey, though a single red-clad wizard looms in the back.

She forces herself not to push back her hair or pull down the tattered dress that barely covers her. In this sterile room, she is a dirty thing.

“Bring out our other guest,” Voldemort instructs a black-clad Death Eater with a lazy wave of his hand. His yellow eyes are trained on Hermione, his chapped lips curl in a sneer.

The last person she expects to see is thrown into the room. He lies on his stomach, his formerly blond tresses caked in mud.

He wears what was likely once a nice set of robes, but are now soaked in blood. 

“Draco Malfoy,” Voldemort drawls. He stomps on Malfoy fingers, eliciting a shriek from the man.

Hermione almost rolls her eyes; she knows better than to let a simple broken finger bother her. She supposes in spite of his appearance, Malfoy remains a spoiled boy with a flair for the dramatic.

“You are pathetic and weak. Stand up!” Voldemort barks, as though it were Malfoy’s fault he was lying on the ground.

The man who stands is nearly unrecognizable from the boy she knew in school. His nose is broken in two places and a red scar streaks diagonally across his face. 

But his eyes — Hermione has to turn away when they briefly make contact. 

She recognizes that look, from the few moments she sees her own reflection in a bucket of water or passes a mirror.

Lord Voldemort clasps his hands together and looks between the two of them. “Now that we’re all here, I think it’s time for a little announcement.”

Hermione ignores the desire to peek to the side and discern if Mafoy knows what this monster has planned.

“You both have wronged me,” Voldemort starts, his face low, as if he’s truly upset. He places a hand against his chest and walks straight up to Malfoy, until their noses are inches apart. “You,” he spits, “thought to _deceive me!_ The all knowing rightful Lord of the wizarding world. And you,” he turns on his heel and narrows his eyes at Hermione. “Thought yourself worthy to exist in _my_ world.”

Hermione thinks there are some critical flaws in Voldemort’s argument but chooses not to point them out to him.

“I don’t want others to think they can simply — betray me, or the world order I’ve created. So—” Voldemort looks back and forth between them, attempting a smile on his deformed face “—I’ve decided you two should marry. It will be fun, won’t it? A wedding, a consummation… I’m quite looking forward to it.” His eyes shine in amusement, and Hermione realizes she’s just a toy. The last Mudblood - a trinket for his entertainment. 

She can’t stop her eyes from growing wide and her gaze from shifting to Malfoy. He’s gaping at her, nostrils flared, eyes narrowed. 

She can’t stop herself from speaking. “And if I refuse?” she stutters, her voice betraying her.

Because she’d rather die than be forced into a marriage; than simply be a pawn in this man’s game.

“Nott!” Voldemort calls out to the one Death Eater in red robes. Hermione nearly shivers at the sight of the Dark Lord’s top lieutenant, feels the weight of his eyes momentarily on her.

A familiar cry forces a gasp from Hermione’s throat. She covers her mouth to keep from shouting out, squeezes her eyes to prepare herself for the sight she knows is waiting for her.

Voldemort laughs and she slowly opens her lids.

“We left one Weasley alive for you, my dear,” Voldemort taunts. Hermione’s eyes water at the sight of Ron, scrawny from malnourishment, scarred nearly beyond recognition. But he looks at her as he always has.

Like she’s everything.

And she knows she is done for, because she won’t let Voldemort harm him.

“So,” Voldemort says gleefully, his mouth in a twisted snarl. “What do you say, Ms. Granger? Will you allow yourself to be bound to Mr. Draco Malfoy? Or will you let your beloved Ron Weasley die?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A quick note before getting started:** I'm doing my best to tag as we go but if you have any concerns please reach out to me on [Tumblr](https://canttouchthis87.tumblr.com/) or Discord.

### Part 1: Bonded

_There will be a time when darkness has bonded Britain’s magic,_   
_When a usurper will sit upon a throne,_   
_When all are threatened,_   
_There will be no hope, save for a whisper in the darkness…_

* * *

Draco needs a drink. 

It’s his only thought as he complies thoughtlessly with every order given to him, scowl sent his way, and rough grab of his elbow. The Manor’s drawing room — he wouldn’t dream to call it his anymore — is a haze of grey and black robes… and cluttered with gold.

So much fucking gold. Gold-laden portrait frames, gold wallpaper... it litters the place, as if its presence can cover up the stench of dark magic that permeates the Manor. He feels it stuck to him, dripping into his pores like sweat on a hot day.

The lights are unnecessarily bright, illuminating the blood-stained floors and cracks along the crown molding. 

Without the aid of alcohol, Draco has to make an effort to dull his senses. He steadfastly avoids the heady gazes of the Death Eaters that surround him, ignores the cacophony of taunts and laughter. 

This isn’t the first time he’s been told to perform, and he knows what’s at stake if he fails to do so. His fingers twitch, and he resists the urge to straighten his nose, to rub at the monstrosity that marks his face.

“Fucking move, Malfoy,” Mulciber spits in his ear, pushing him onto a dais. Draco nearly falls atop his bride to be, stumbling as the room spins.

Hermione Granger’s wearing the most absurd white gown, covered in lace and yellow stains. Her hair is an untamed mess, her face is marked in purple and black blotches from untreated wounds. Her eyes are haunting; the brown irises tinged with specks of green, fixed straight ahead of her.

She still has that spark in her, that sense of righteousness that even a year in captivity couldn’t beat out of her. 

A part of Draco wants to be angry too; he knows somewhere in the recesses of his mind that he should be.

But all he feels is thirsty. 

Draco can’t stop his finger from tracing the scar that crosses his face; the red monstrosity gifted to him by the self-proclaimed King of magical Britain himself. Draco’s own uniform for this travesty is laughable; a set of moldy robes, torn and tattered, so pungent the shaky tailor had to charm the odor away to keep from puking.

This wedding, like the marriage it precipitates, is nothing but a show; a preposterous horror for the King’s pleasure. 

A white cloaked man stands in front of them, holding a blade out, mumbling words in Latin — or maybe Greek? Draco’s mind is too dulled to know the difference. The man must be a mage or a priest of sorts, probably dug up from a country with an unpronounceable name against his will, brought here to perform this ancient rite for the Dark Lo— the King’s amusement. 

There’s no warning, or if there is one Draco’s too dazed to appreciate it, before the blade slices across his palm. He’s forcibly turned, now face to face with Granger, their eyes meeting for the first time.

She’s watching him, her gaze calculating, and he can only imagine what runs through her mind at the sight of him. The situation is so utterly preposterous, a marriage between Draco Malfoy and Hermione fucking Granger, the pair of them forced into this absurd game.

Draco lets his mind shift from the nascent thought, choosing instead to think about the scotch he’s sure the King will provide at the reception.

He wonders if Hermione’s disappointed in his apathy and deformity; or perhaps she’s simply relieved he’s just an echo of the boy he’d once been. 

The last he’d seen her was at the Battle of Hogwarts nearly a year earlier, a little skinny and bruised, sidled to Weasley and Potter. 

It’s amazing how much can change in a year. Her hair sits at her shoulders now, her face gaunt, her skin chalky. 

He’s momentarily curious if she recalls being tortured in this very room, though if her experience over the last year was anything like his, she likely isn’t particularly bothered. Still — she doesn’t seem completely gone. 

_Good for her_.

Their bloody palms are forcibly pressed together. Her hand is caked in dirt and he nearly snorts at the thought of the literal mud blood mixing between them.

The white-cloaked man conjures blood-red bindings, magically fastening them around their adjoined hands and forearms. In spite of his own magic being taken, Draco can still feel the unnatural warmth as the bond takes hold.

He’s heard of such rituals being used in ancient times, typically to bond the children of warring factions to secure alliances. 

They were barbaric things that fell out of style nearly a millennium ago. But the Dark Lo— King finds them fascinating. He thinks it's fun to test the magic on two of his dolls; to see what happens when they’re forced to fuck once a week until a child is concieved.

Draco wonders if they’re expected to fail, if the King simply wants to see how precisely this will kill them. Even if they are some of his favorite possessions, they are still disposable.

Because that is all they are in the end; the Malfoy heir and the last Mudblood. Toys for the King to play with. 

The binding evaporates and Granger pulls her hand back, rubbing the dripping blood against her stained gown, the red mixing in with the yellows. She’s the bride from hell; fitting for him, he thinks.

He realizes the ritual must be over and exhales sharply, ignoring Granger’s incredulous stare.

“What?” he bites, vaguely aware these are the first words he has spoken to her since this whole ordeal began.

“Nothing,” she mumbles, jaw clenched.

“Well, come now,” the Dark Lord intones, floating towards them on his strange throne, lips turned in a sneer. “Aren’t you going to kiss your bride?”

* * *

Hermione’s fairly certain she’s in hell.

She never wasted time as a child imagining her wedding, but she’s fairly certain she never would have pictured _this_. Immediately following the bonding ceremony, she was ushered into an overly ornate ballroom and pressed into a seat beside Malfoy at a small table towards the front of the room.

Voldemort jeers at her from the head table, sitting with only his red-clad lieutenant beside him. The pair are laughing; Hermione catches Theo Nott’s cold stare for a moment and hastily turns her attention to the back of the room.

A gaggle of Death Eaters clutter the place; they’re boisterous as they celebrate, enjoying the bread and circuses their King provides. 

She can hear them betting on how long it will be until she and Malfoy are found dead, unable to maintain the bond. Odds are currently at three months.

Malfoy — her _husband_ — has managed to imbibe a half a carafe of gin. She can’t stop herself from staring at him, recalling the vain boy with unblemished skin, who spouted Voldemort’s propaganda so easily.

He refills his tumbler and shoots the drink back, shuddering slightly as he swallows. Hermione’s eyes trace the line of his scar from his forehead to the pulse point along his neck. His robes are pushed to his elbow, showing burnt flesh where she presumes his Dark Mark once sat.

“What’re you looking at?” he slurs, turning towards her, his glare is dulled by a glassy haze over his eyes. 

“My husband, apparently,” she quips, a single eyebrow raised. 

He shrugs, refilling the tumbler.

Her jaw drops. “How much have you had to drink?”

He swallows and looks seriously at the empty glass. “Not enough to be having this conversation I imagine.” He reaches out again but the carafe is gone, presumably taken away by a house elf to be refilled.

“What's the matter with you?” she whispers under her breath.

“Me?” he questions, lifting his eyebrows. “I’m perfectly well adjusted, thank you—” he pauses, letting out a short belch “—I can guarantee you this charade will be much easier completely trashed so I’d recommend you join me.” He’s surprisingly coherent, even though his tone is unfamiliar. She recalls his clipped taunts, his haughty leer; the air of superiority that seemed so utterly intrinsic to him.

The carafe is returned and Malfoy lets out an audible sigh in relief. 

“So you plan to drink until death do us part?” she asks.

His eyes flit around the room before returning to her. “Why not?”

She’s struggling to find an argument, until the image of Ron, bloody and broken, drifts to the front of her mind. “It’s not just our lives at stake.”

Malfoy snorts. “You’re worried for _Weasley_? Please.” He rolls his eyes and grabs his fork, running it through the mush before seeming to change his mind, refilling his tumbler instead.

She flares her nostrils, her mouth forming a thin line. She lets only the anger in, unwilling to allow the fear and heartache that threatens to invade her conscious thoughts. “I know you hate— ”

He interrupts her, pressing his elbows into the table and shifting towards her until his face is uncomfortably close to hers. “Are you really this naive?” His voice is low, his words soaked in gin.

She resists shrinking back, turning defiantly towards him. “Just because I refuse to drown my sorrows in alcohol doesn’t mean I’m naive.”

“What do you think is going to happen?” His liquor-tinted breath lingers against her cheek.

She sucks on her bottom lip, narrowing her eyes. “I think,” she seethes, “that no kingdom lasts forever.” She snaps her mouth shut, her eyes quickly darting around the room. But no one is paying attention to them, too wrapped up in their own frivolity.

Malfoy laughs, muttering under his breath. “The maniac bonded all of magical Britain to him; how might we overcome such a thing?” He doesn’t wait for her to respond, simply tilts his head back and resumes his drinking. 

She wonders what happened to Draco Malfoy to make him so — defeated. 

“Aren’t you — angry? To be forced to marry me?” She’s seething, her ire creeping into her throat. It was one thing to be a prisoner; but to be made into a bride is something else entirely.

His eyes darken for a moment before returning to their familiar grey. “Honestly? I really couldn’t give two fucks.” He doesn’t flinch, looks almost bored as he twirls with his empty glass.

She blinks. “You understand what we have to do, don’t you?” she whispers. 

He snorts, inadvertently spilling some of his drink on his decrepit robes. “You mean we have to fuck once a week? Yes. I’m fairly certain it won’t be the most unsavory thing I’ve been forced to do.”

She furrows her brow, her eyes once more drawn to that scar, to the burn on his arm, the way he hunches. 

“Besides,” he continues, “I’ve been told we get to stay here — above ground. I don’t know about you, but for me it’ll be a nice change of pace.” The side of his lip curls slightly.

She nods in understanding. “Dolls in a dollhouse.”

“Indeed.” He lifts his drink towards her before shooting it back.

* * *

“You don’t have to do this,” Hermione tells the woman who insists on undressing her, ‘preparing’ her for her wedding night. Like all the above ground rooms in the Manor, it’s too bright. The walls are covered in mismatched artwork and the floor, though waxed, is discolored from long dried stains.

“I do. The King has said I serve you now, and that I must pr-prepare you for the consummation,” the woman mumbles, head bowed. Hermione frowns, wondering why Voldemort would give her a servant of all things. There’s something familiar about the woman though; something about her countenance, her sharp features, that gnaw at Hermione’s memory.

She gently pulls off Hermione’s gown, her eyes lingering momentarily on the fabric before throwing it to the side of the room.

Hermione stands uncomfortably in only her underwear, shifting left to right. “I don’t understand all the fuss,” Hermione complains; they had been perfectly fine with her state of cleanliness for the wedding. It seems strange that they’re suddenly concerned about things like sanitation.

The woman doesn’t respond, simply reaches into a metal bucket, grabbing a sponge, and slowly rubbing the soapy water over Hermione’s bare skin.

“Do you have a name?” Hermione asks, fidgeting under the attention and ministrations of the timid woman.

She freezes, the sponge stilled at Hermione’s knee. “I’m — Cece,” she tells Hermione and continues cleaning her.

“I’m Hermione,” she tells the woman. 

Cece doesn’t look up or acknowledge her. From her vantage point, Hermione notices a scar running up and down her back; bright red, not unlike the monstrosity covering Malfoy’s face.

Hermione’s eyes go wide as she realizes who the woman is. “You’re Narcissa Malfoy!” she nearly shouts.

Cece drops her sponge and falls on all fours, tugging her knees to her chest and pressing her hands over her ears. She mumbles to herself and Hermione awkwardly joins her on the tainted ground, trying to understand her words.

“Not Narcissa. Not anymore. Cece now,” she repeats over and over. Cece’s shaking, her shoulders hunched. She’s tucked in on herself, looking tiny, almost childlike. 

Hermione takes a labored breath and tentatively places a hand along her back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” she whispers to the woman. 

Narcissa — Cece, doesn’t react, except to vary her mutterings. “Cece obeys orders. Cece is good. Cece promises.”

“Okay, Cece,” Hermione says softly, rubbing her back. Her mind is whirling, trying to reconcile the proud witch Hermione recollects to the timid woman beside her.

The pieces begin to come together — why Voldemort would force Cece to serve her, why perhaps Malfoy is so utterly broken. He’s arranged this little game meticulously it seems.

Her mind drifts to Ron, and she imagines for a moment he’s sitting directly beneath this room, perhaps lying on a cot in one of the putrid cells. Maybe they’ve given him hers; she imagines Rowle taunting Ron, and she wonders if he’ll be able to stand it.

Ron always had a temper; especially when it came to her.

Hermione continues to rub Cece’s back, whispering soothing words, trying to calm the poor woman. “It’s okay, alright Cece?” Hermione tries to reassure her.

Cece freezes and lifts her head, looking Hermione in the eye. Her blue gaze is intense and her mouth quivers, as though on the verge of speaking. But she presses her lips together, drops her head once more and stands, retrieving the sponge.

Hermione blinks, shook from the brief exchange; she stands and allows Cece to continue bathing her. They’re silent, the brush of the sponge and dull echoes of laughter from the nearby Death Eaters lingering between them.

Cece gathers a white nightdress from the side of the room and carefully dresses Hermione. It’s too long, bunching at her feet; the fabric is thin and poorly quality, scratching at her skin. She’s grateful there’s no mirror; she has no desire so see what she looks like in this monstrosity.

“Thank you,” Hermione says, her voice scratchy. Cece raises her eyes momentarily before they fall again.

Hermione lets her eyes linger on the woman, wondering how someone could be so utterly broken in so short a time.

She’s jolted by the door slamming against the wall, only further startling when she catches Theo Nott’s cold gaze. He stands holding the door open in his immaculate red robes.

Her mind wanders for a moment, imagining what precisely he did to rise in Voldemort’s ranks so quickly. She pushes away the rising feeling of disgust at the possibilities.

“It’s time to go,” Nott orders. He stands unnaturally still, his eyes locked on her. A chill runs through her but she forces herself to slowly walk through the door. “You look beautiful. Draco’s a lucky guy,” Nott whispers against her ear as she passes him. His breath lingers against her neck and her breath catches.

Her fingers shake and she clenches her fists to keep calm. She’s heard the stories of Theo Nott, whispers amongst the Death Eaters over the past year. For the first time since this charade began, she’s grateful to be married to Draco Malfoy.

A drunk she can handle.

Hermione’s led into an oversized bedroom. A four-poster bed sits awkwardly in the middle, translucent sheer curtains surround it.

The white-robed priest from the bonding ceremony stands at the foot of the bed, waving his wand and illuminating the room in streams of colored light. It would be beautiful, were it not for the black and grey robed Death Eaters that border the room. 

And the flash of red that stands just inches closer.

Voldemort left the Manor half-way through the wedding feast, claiming he was needed back at Hogwarts. Hermione suspects he can’t be away from the castle for long, that the bond he’s created to tie magical Britain to him wears on him.

But she’s not going to complain.

She’s standing a foot from the bed, twitching uncomfortably under the eyes of so many.

This entire situation is unfathomable — horrifying in a way bordering on the absurd. The fact that these grown men, soldiers in the Dark Lord’s army, plan to simply stand there while she fucks Draco Malfoy is — ridiculous, for lack of a better word.

It’s the utter insanity that keeps her from dwelling on the injustice of it; that she and Draco Malfoy are being forced to have sex on a weekly basis, all for a mad man’s amusement. It’s a violation in every sense of the word. But she knows Malfoy is a victim too.

A grey-clad Death Eater pulls Malfoy into the room. He looks terrible, swaying side to side in a thin tunic and soft trousers.

Her stomach lurches at an errant thought: _What if he can’t get it up?_

He’s placed next to her, his shoulders hunched, head drawn. He reminds her of Cece for a moment, and in spite of the horrifying situation she’s in, and knowing precisely what they have to do, she feels sorry for him.

The priest is chanting, and the lights hover on their skin. The magic tingles, a familiar warmth sweeping through her for just a moment. 

But then it passes, leaving her once more feeling cold; numb and empty.

The priest pulls back the sheer curtain, gesturing.

“After you, Granger,” Malfoy mumbles with raised eyebrows, looking — bored.

Her heart beats erratically, and she can no longer distract herself with thoughts of ethics or the madness of Voldemort.

She has to have sex with Draco Malfoy. Her _husband_ , Draco Malfoy. Though she doesn’t think a forced marriage would be recognized by any government not currently controlled by a mad dictator.

She awkwardly scoots onto the bed, lying prone, simply waiting.

Malfoy stumbles, his hand grabbing her arm as he collapses sideways on top of her.

A roar of laughter comes from the surrounding crowd. Hermione’s frozen, waiting for him to move or — do something.

Malfoy’s breaths are uneven, his eyes fluttering shut.

Her jaw drops as she realizes what’s happening. “Malfoy!” She tugs at the arm he’s managed to drape across her.

He lets out a half-snore.

She’s vaguely impressed by just how quickly he’s managed to fall asleep.

“Malfoy!” She slaps him and he finally stirs.

“Granger?” He scrunches his nose for a moment, blinking until going wide eyed. “Fuck,” he groans out. He manages to crawl off of her and they lie awkwardly side by side, looking up at the ceiling.

A Death Eater’s cat call from outside breaks through, a nearly inaudible shout of: “If you can’t take care of her I can!”

Nott mutters a _“Crucio_ ” in his deep, unmistakable drawl. “Do not interrupt the consummation.”

The room is silent except for a pathetic whimper.

Malfoy’s looking at her with trepidation, as though he’s only just realized what has to happen.

“How do you want to do this?” she whispers. She’s not sure if it makes a difference; for all she knows, there’s a spell broadcasting their every word. 

“What?” He’s squirming, uncomfortable.

She narrows her eyes. “You’re not a virgin, are you?” she asks quietly.

“No, I’m not,” he answers too quickly. He’s beginning to look a bit green.

She’s now worried he’ll heave on her.

She shuts her eyes and takes a deep breath. “Fine, I’ll do the work. Can you—” she nods towards his waist “—take off your trousers?” 

He looks at her like she’s grown a second head, but shimmies out of his trousers regardless.

Hermione tries to look at the situation rationally; sex is a biological act, she understands from a practical stand point if they do not consummate their marriage, the Ancient Magic that bonds them will quite literally kill them.

But thoughts of Ron, treasured memories of being with him, fill the back of her mind. She shakes her head, willing the unhelpful thoughts away.

She reminds herself this is only a game. One she needs to somehow survive.

She pulls her own nightdress up to her waist and straddles Malfoy. He’s lying still, his eyes wide and staring at her. His eyes trail down her body, his breaths quickening.

She looks down.

He’s flaccid. _Of course_.

She returns her gaze to him. “Are you fucking kidding me, Malfoy?”

Draco looks down and shrugs. “Sorry?”

Hermione takes a levelling inhale, wrapping her hand around his cock, reminding herself of the stakes. She forces herself to ignore his heavy breathing, staying focused on the task at hand.

She nearly cries out in relief when he finally grows hard, a drip of precum brushing against her thumb.

He moans, and a drivel of drool escapes the corner of his mouth and she remembers what happens next.

She’s never been less turned on in her life.

Regardless, she positions herself atop him, pushing the last of her pride away. She presses against him, trying not to wince at the feel of him entering her completely dry. 

He lets out a soft grunt and his hands snake out, rubbing awkwardly against her legs.

 _Too little too late_ , she thinks, forcing herself to bounce up and down atop him, willing him to just get off already. She ignores the sensation of sandpaper within her cunt, pushing up and down with as much excitement as she can muster.

Malfoy’s lip quivers and his eyes flutter shut. Hermione’s worried he’s going to pass out again when he moans and relaxes.

It’s probably the first time she’s ever been grateful for sex to end so quickly. Hermione has barely pulled herself off of him when the priest abruptly pulls back the curtain. She presses her dress down, kneeling awkwardly on the mattress. Malfoy seems alert, hastily pulling back up his trousers.

The priest eyes them both critically and nods, pulling out his wand. “Vinculum,” he mutters. The same lights as before weave between them. “Good.” The priest nods and backs away.

“So,” Malfoy slurs as he sits up on his forearms, eyes drooped, “was it good for you?”

Hermione buries her face in her palms, willing this nightmare to be over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...so? Was it good for you?
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful beta [PTwritesmore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PTwritesmore/pseuds/PTwritesmore) and [Lilithmorningstar69](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilithmorningstar69/works) for the plunny/inspiration.
> 
> I appreciate any and all comments/reactions/emotions/gifs. You can also find me stumbling around social media on Tumblr @ [canttouchthis87](https://canttouchthis87.tumblr.com/).


	3. Chapter 3

It’s been a week since her “wedding”. While she’d been living a horror of sorts for the past year, being married to the shell of Draco Malfoy was turning into an experience all of its own.

Which means they’re required to once more fornicate to renew the bond, or else the bonding magic will kill them.  _ Ancient rituals _ , Hermione thinks sardonically, wondering why anyone would develop a bond that kills the bondees if they fail to have sex every week.

Malfoy’s slightly more sober this time, and insists he knows how to actually fuck a woman. Hermione’s grateful to just lie there, her head turned towards the window as he pounds into her. She does what she can to ignore his labored breaths and grunts, reminding herself of her one goal: survival.

He finally groans out and collapses on her, slowly rolling off and onto his back. She presses her gaudy nightdress down, letting out a heavy exhale.

They lie side by side; he’s breathing heavy, chest heaving, before finally reaching under the bed to grab a bottle of rum and taking a long swig.

“Ah.” He smacks his lips, shutting his eyes. He carelessly tucks his cock back into his trousers as if indifferent to their obligation.

“Hand it here.” She reaches out for the bottle.

He lifts a single eyebrow. “You sure, Granger?” he asks.

She flares her nostrils and huffs. “I understand you probably don’t want to share, but after  _ that _ , I need a drink.”

He shrugs, entirely unbothered by her insinuation, handing her the rum.

She takes a generous gulp, wincing slightly. She realizes this is the most she and Malfoy have interacted since this entire ordeal started a week ago.

They’d been escorted the night of their wedding to the East Wing of the Manor and “given” this small room, covered in green and grey. The room consists of a massive bed and little else; marks and tears along the walls suggest that there was once an opulent room, fully furnished and wallpapered. 

It had taken her a moment to realize this was Malfoy’s childhood bedroom, though when she asked, all he did was shrug and wander off, searching through hidden floorboards for booze.

For the most part, Malfoy keeps to his drinking, occasionally roaming the halls of the East Wing, stumbling back with a new bottle or a new bruise. She never asks where he gets either.

Instead, Hermione plots. Or, she tries to. She has mapped out their small room to the best of her ability, and spends hours at the windows, staring onto the grounds and memorizing the change of the guard.

She’s done everything but leave this room, unwilling to deal with the nearby Death Eaters, one in particular who she’d rather avoid.

She takes a small sip of the rum, scrunching her nose in distaste. She wonders if it’s worth it, drinking all day and living in a perpetual haze. Though she doubts even drunk she’d have the stomach to tolerate men like Theo Nott and Adrian Pucey. 

“This is awful,” Hermione tells him, handing back the bottle.

“What did you expect?”

She turns her head and catches his gaze. He looks amused, a hint of curiosity seeping into his otherwise dull grey eyes.

It’s her turn to shrug. “I’m not sure. I don’t drink much.”

He laughs and looks up at the ceiling. “Hermione Granger. In my bed, drinking rum with me,” he slurs, taking another swig before turning back towards her, bearing the smallest hint of a smile. Though he’s a foot away, she can still smell the rum heavy on his breath. 

She furrows her brow, trying to make sense of him. “Why are you like this?” 

The light extinguishes from his eyes and he sighs. “Same reason as you, I suppose.”

“No—” she shakes her head “—you’re unrecognizable.” She’s unintentionally harsh, her eyes instinctually seeking out his scar.

He lets out a dry chuckle, his hand rubbing against the base of the scar at his neck. “I pissed off the wrong people,” he tells her.

“So you just — drink?” she asks.

He shrugs, his left eye twitching slightly. “Everyone loves a drunk.” He shifts, returning his focus to the ceiling, lightly humming to himself.

She continues to watch him, as if he’ll do something that makes sense. Realization dawns on her. “They made you drink?” she asks, incredulous. 

He’s still, and for a moment his mask of indifference seems to evaporate as his eye twitches and lip quivers. He nods eventually and returns the bottle to his lips.

“That’s…” she starts, struggling to find the words she’s looking for.  _ Horrible… inhumane… unfair _ all cross her mind, but none seem to effectively capture the horror she feels. 

“Fucked up?” he suggests, facing her once more, his brow wrinkled. “At least I’m intact,” he mumbles.

She’s about to argue with him when she pales, realizing who precisely he’s referring to. She softens, whispering, “Your mother?”

He blinks, shifting his gaze to the door behind her. He nods, pressing the bottle to his lips.

Cece comes and goes, creeping into their room every day to clean and change out Hermione’s clothing. Hermione tries to speak with her, to offer kindness and reassurances, but rarely gets any sort of response. 

Draco’s never in the room when Cece is there, and Hermione only now wonders if that is intentional.

“What happened?” Hermione asks, though she’s afraid of what the answer may be.

Draco swallows, looking her in the eye once more. “The same as all of us, I suppose. Only she broke.” 

Hermione frowns, biting the inside of her cheek. “But what exactly—”

He interrupts her, “Do you really want to know, Granger?” For a moment his eyes are alight, and she sees the same boy she scoffed at for six years. But he blinks and he’s once again her apathetic husband.

“I suppose I don’t,” she concedes, reaching out for the bottle once more.

They’re silent for a while, passing the bottle back and forth, their situation sitting thickly between them. 

“Do you know what’s going to happen to us?” she asks finally.

He raises both eyebrows. “You don’t know?” he asks, his eyes darting over her.

She’s feeling slightly warm from the rum and shrugs. “I’ve been pretty much kept in cages the last year. Beyond some trivial Death Eater gossip, I know nothing.”

He snorts, which turns into a cough. “You’re lucky, then.”

“Lucky?” she spits. “Just because I—”

He silences her with a glare. “Do you want to know what’s going to happen—?” she nods “—well, the Da— the  _ King _ , is housing us in Malfoy Manor, which is of course under the command of Theo—”

She interrupts him, “Theo Nott?” She shudders reflexively.

Malfoy looks amused. “You don’t have to be scared of him, he’s harmless.”

Hermione scoffs. “Are you kidding? There’s something about him that’s just off... and I’ve heard the rumors. Besides, you don’t become the King’s right hand man without spilling a bit of blood.”

He shrugs. “Theo’s odd; always has been. There’s plenty of Death Eaters to be afraid of, but I wouldn’t worry about him.”

She doesn’t quite agree, but doesn’t see any point in debating the subject at the moment. “So, Nott runs this place. What does that mean?”

Draco places his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling yet again. “They have a lot of  _ events _ here. Parties, balls, whatnot. You know, bread and circuses, or what have you. I assume that’s why we’re here — to be brought out as entertainment.”

It doesn’t sound  _ that _ terrible. “Is that so bad?”

He faces her, looking down his nose at her in that haughty way he used to at Hogwarts. “I guess we’ll find out.” 

She still has so many questions; but Malfoy’s once more humming to himself, a vaguely familiar tune. “You know,” she starts finally, “you should call me Hermione.”

He freezes, squinting at her. “Why?”

“Well — we’re technically married. Or bonded… I’m also not entirely sure how comfortable I feel having sex with a man once a week who only calls me by my last name,” she explains, her tone light.

He chuckles. “Alright, Hermione,” he enunciates her name, scrunching his nose at the end. “Call me Draco then.”

“Dray-co,” she says, trying it out. “It’ll take some getting used to.”

He looks at her strangely. “You seem to be taking all of this—” he gestures between the two of them “—pretty well…” he trails off, drumming his fingers against the bottle. 

She takes a breath. "I guess as… repulsive as this entire situation is, I feel like maybe now I can do something. Like… I was kept under the table but now at least I’m on the board."

Draco laughs, which quickly turns into a cough. "You think this is a game of chess? You want to ‘do something?’ Are you mad?"

Hermione grinds out, "I get that you've given up. But I still think  _ he _ can be stopped." 

Draco shakes his head and says softly, “I’m sorry you’re stuck with me, Gra—Hermione.”

She feels blood rush to her cheeks and refocuses her gaze to the ceiling. “It’s not — it’s not you. I mean, not completely,” she starts. He snorts and she continues, “It’s anyone in this situation.”

“I was  _ teasing _ you,” he tells her, the corner of his lip turning. “I agree. This is incredibly fucked up. I was surprised you didn’t put up more of a fight. I figured all that Gryffindor bravery would have led to some dramatics.”

She wants to snap back at him, but he’s not wrong. “I would have, if it were only me,” she admits.

His eyes flash. “Weasley? You went along with this for  _ him _ ?” He doesn’t sound angry, but rather confused.

She nods and looks down at her hands. “Ron would do anything for me. Marrying you? It’s the least I can do, if it means he gets to live.”

Draco swallows. “And you think that’s what he wants?” he says quietly.

Hermione shoots him a glare. “Yes, I think he wants to live.”

He shakes his head. “That’s — not what I mean—” he takes a quick sip of the rum “—do you really think he would want this for you? That he’d think his life was worth it?”

Hermione recalls the selfish boy Draco Malfoy had been at Hogwarts. “What would you know? Since when have you worried for anyone other than yourself.”

He opens his mouth, and his eyes darken for just a moment before he shakes his head. “You’re right. I don’t know anything about sacrifice.”

An image of Cece huddled in on herself on the ground flashes in Hermione’s mind. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “It’s just — Ron would do anything for me. I can’t do anything if it means he would die.”

Draco offers a sad smile. “You know there’s no future for him, right? At least you’re a novelty. Me? I’m the last Malfoy, and the King thinks that means something. But Weasley?” Draco shakes his head and continues, “There’s no incentive, other than to use him to keep you compliant. And at some point, that may not be enough.”

Hermione bites her lower lip, shaking her head. “I can’t believe that. One day, we’ll break whatever bond Voldemort has over Great Britain, or somehow escape it.”

“And in the meantime? You’re okay with Weasley being a punching bag in the cellars?” he drawls.

Her eyes go wide and she rolls to face him head on. “You know he’s still here? In the cellars?” she asks.

He purses his lips and rubs at his nose. “I’ve heard Pucey talking about it.”

Hermione shivers at the name, rolling onto her back and crossing her arms over her stomach.

“Yeah, he’s not a nice guy,” Draco mumbles. “What’d he do to you?”

“Oh, he just likes to  _ talk _ ,” Hermione says, staring up once more at the bland ceiling. “Most of the Death Eaters didn’t seem to particularly care about my existence. But him?” She shakes her head.

Draco hums his agreement under his breath.

“Do you think he’s okay? Ron, I mean,” Hermione says softly, shutting her eyes.

Draco huffs. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

She turns away from him, curling in on herself, trying to stop herself from dwelling on things beyond her control.

But she thinks of Ron anyways, and hears Draco’s words echo in her mind:  _ Do you really think he would want this for you? That he’d think his life was worth it? _

* * *

Draco stands at the threshold of their bedroom, clutching a hefty book beneath his shirt. He wasn’t explicitly forbidden from entering the library, but he’s fairly certain that the Death Eaters are unaware he can get there and back undetected.

Hermione’s perched on the window seat, her mouth moving slightly, as though she’s counting or perhaps memorizing something. She’s thrown her hair into a sloppy bun and the midday sun reflects off her cheek.

Draco shuts the door and Hermione jumps, shoulders relaxing once she turns and sees him.

“Draco,” she greets politely.

They’re still awkward, even after agreeing to use first names, though he supposes that’s inevitable when you’re forced to marry someone you’ve hated your entire life.

“Hermione.” He nods and walks over to her.

She’s wide-eyed as he approaches, scooting to the side of the window seat and watching him carefully.

He grabs a bottle of liquor from beneath the bed and takes a drink before joining her. He doesn’t miss the way her eyes flash in disappointment.

“Here—” he thrusts the book into her hands, taking a seat opposite her, “—I thought you might like something to read.”

He avoids her gaze, staring instead at his torn socks and his toes sticking out.

“Thank you,” she whispers. 

He shifts slightly, watching her delicately handle the tome, cracking it gently open. She smiles and a soft sigh escapes her lips when she reads the title, her finger tracing over the bold letters.

“ _ The Odyssey _ ,” she mumbles, her eyes flitting across the page. She looks up at him abruptly, her gaze penetrating, and he feels exposed. “Why’d you give this to me?” she asks.

He takes another sip of the firewhiskey and shrugs. He’s not sure why he did it, only that he was wandering the corridors and had an errant thought that Hermione would probably like something to do. “Just figured you might be bored,” he tells her.

“Well thank you, again.” Her smile reaches her eyes, the soft golden flecks within them dancing in a way he'd never seen. 

A warmth pools in his stomach as he realizes it was  _ him _ that inspired such a reaction. 

“You seem sober.” Her tone is light, but he can detect the subtle judgement beneath, that lingering ‘Granger’ underlying the woman this world has forced her to become.

He holds up the bottle. “Don’t plan to be for long.”

She frowns, but doesn’t probe further, instead asking: “Did you learn anything? Out on your walk or whatever it is you do?”

He turns the questions back on her. “You know,” he raises his eyebrows, “we’re not trapped in this room. You can walk around the wing, do your own ‘investigation’ or whatever.”

Hermione sucks on her teeth. “I assume we’re still being minded by Adrian Pucey?” she asks.

Draco nods. “Yeah, he’s around.”

“Then I’m fine here. With my book.” She lifts up  _ The Odyssey _ , offering him a half-smile. “So, anything new?”

He swallows, not particularly anxious to respond. “Nothing really important.”

She’s not fooled and her brows furrow. “Then what  _ isn’t  _ important, Draco?” She says his name slowly, and a memory floats to the front of his mind of his own mother speaking to him that way, her brow wrinkled and hands on her hips.

Draco shuts his eyes and takes a generous swig, anxious for the fog to resettle. “It’s Weasley,” he tells her finally.

The last vestiges of her smile fade and she leans forward. “Ron? What is it? What’s happened?” Her breaths quicken, her eyes darting across his face.

Draco feels naked in a way, exposed under her gaze. “I just—” he needs more firewhiskey and presses the bottle his lips “—he’s worried about you.”

Draco’s not sure why his own heart is racing, but he finds himself pushing down the urge to comfort her. 

“Worried about me?” she mumbles. “What is he doing?” She looks lost,  _ scared _ , and Draco wishes he had kept his mouth shut.

“Just that he keeps asking about you and, well, they’re not saying or doing nice things back,” he explains.

Hermione blinks back tears as she looks down at the book in her lap, her thumb stroking the leather. She furrows her brow, looking back at him, wide eyed. “Can you take me to see him?” she asks.

He laughs, hastily covering his face to keep the whiskey from sputtering out. “You want to go down to the cellars? I assumed you’d spent enough time down there.” 

She shakes her head and flares her nostrils. “Don’t be a wise ass. I just want to see him.”

Draco levels her with a stare, though the room spins slightly as the alcohol begins to take effect. “They may let us out of this  _ room, _ but they won’t let us into the cellar. Don’t be an idiot.”

She presses her finger angrily against her new book. “Then how did you get  _ this _ ?” she asks.

He feels a blush creep up his neck. “It was just around.”

“Really?” her eyebrows are raised, a familiar light lingering in her gaze. “Even Death Eaters aren’t quite so barbaric as to leave a first edition Fitzgerald of  _ The Odyssey _ just laying around. I’m sure this would be kept in the Manor’s library, somewhere safe? And while I may not know everything about Malfoy Manor, I am quite certain that the library is located on the  _ West _ Wing and not the East.” For a moment, he imagines her at Hogwarts, sitting in the front of Charms class with her arm stretched to the ceiling.

He blinks, squinting his eyes. “Really, Grange— Hermione? I go out of my way to bring you this book, and now you use it against me?” He takes another sip and dramatically presses his palm against his heart.

She huffs, her shoulders sagging, but she keeps her eyes focused on him as she sidles up to him. Her knee is only inches from his, her hands clutching the window seat. She’s so close her breath brushes against his chin, the scent of mint and vanilla invading his senses. “Please,” her voice is shaky, that confidence from moments earlier vanished. He wonders for a moment if she’s playing him, but the errant tear running down her cheek convinces him otherwise. “I just... he’s all I have left.”

He wants to just drink and enjoy the limited freedom he has. He has no reason to care for Hermione Granger, but there’s something in her countenance, in the way her lip quivers, that pulls at him.

He shakes his head and stands up, taking a drink.  _ This _ is precisely why he avoids the woman who was once his mother; because there is no point. “It doesn’t matter. What good will it do to see him? You’ll just be giving him false hope. I told you; he’s done for.”

She wipes her tears, looking up at him. “The  _ point _ is that I would like to see my friend.”

“Your  _ friend _ ?” Draco asks, tilting his head.

She blinks and sucks on her lower lip. “Yes. He’s the only person I have left,” she repeats.

He wishes he didn’t empathize, but he does, and the image of Harry Potter dead on the Hogwarts grounds flashes in his mind. “Do you really think it will help? Seeing him?” he asks softly.

Her face relaxes and the corners of her lips turn up slightly. “It would just make me feel better; seeing him, knowing he’s  _ here _ .”

He considers it for only a moment before turning back to his drink and shaking his head. “No. It’s too dangerous. If we’re caught —”

She interrupts him. “You’ve been sneaking around here for the last week. I’m sure you can manage.”

He exhales. “But why should I?” His words come out belligerent, but he thinks it's necessary to get it through her thick skull. 

She looks momentarily taken aback before her gaze falls back to the book and she smiles slightly. She stands, holding the book for him to see. “You gave me  _ The Odyssey _ ,” she says.

He shrugs. “So?” He ignores the glint in her eye and the twitch of her lip.

“So,” she elongates the word, her tone mocking. “Have you read it?”

He grinds his teeth. “Yes.” 

She smirks. “You gave me a book about a man who pushes through every obstacle to get home. A story about  _ perseverance _ , and about believing in something even when there’s no rational reason to do so. Are you telling me it was an accident?”

He’s speechless; his jaw drops and his heart rate quickens. He’d simply passed the library that morning, and thought it would be  _ nice _ to bring her back a book. He’d seen  _ The Odyssey _ , sitting against a display, and grabbed it thoughtlessly.

“It was an accident.” He audibly swallows.

She shakes her head and stands up, cutting the space between them. “I don’t think so,” she whispers. 

He’s self-conscious of his wretched scar, his magically disfigured nose, but she’s staring him in the eye. “What?” he asks, his voice lighter than he intends.

“I don’t think you’re as broken and gone as you seem. I think you’ve done what you had to survive, but that there’s still a part of you that fights,” she breathes out.

He snorts. “I’m just a drunk.” But he can feel his resolve slipping, see the determination in her eyes.

“I don’t believe that,” she says slowly. Strands of her hair have somehow escaped, flitting errantly around her. Her eyes watch him, darting across his face, as though she's looking for something that isn't there. Like she thinks if she looks hard enough she'll see more than a drunk.

And for a moment, he wants her to be right. He wants to be this person she sees.

“Fine,” he grinds out.

She offers a broad smile and thanks him profusely, clutching that damn book like it’s a life preserver in this sea of shit.

He lies on the bed with his whiskey, leaving her to her window, trying to clear all thought from his mind, but he hears her mutter:

_ “Even his griefs are a joy long after to one that remembers all that he wrought and endured.” _

* * *

Draco leads her to the cellars two days later.

“What are these?” Hermione whispers as he guides them through the hidden passageway.

“Servants corridors. Used by human servants once upon a time, so they could go about their cleaning unseen,” he explains, pressing cobwebs out of the way as they trek down the dark narrow stairwell.

“It’s rather ominous isn’t it? The rickety stairway leading down to the cellar?” she mumbles behind him.

He turns, noticing her tight jaw and the way she clutches the bannister. He stops and she freezes, eyes wide. “Do you want to turn back?” he asks.

She stands a little straighter. “No, why would you say that?”

“You seem to be panicking,” he suggests.

“Am not.”

“You’re about to break a centuries old bannister with the force of your grip and you’ve been babbling incessantly,” he points out.

She lets go of the railing, her fingers shaking slightly. “I’m scared,” she admits in a whisper, looking down at the landing below.

He takes a steadying breath, wishing he had some form of liquor. He can already feel his mind start to clear, and he hates it. “You don’t have to do this. He won’t know if you just turn around—”

She shakes her head. “He’s actually suffering. I can’t just avoid him because I’m  _ scared _ . What would that make me?”

“It would make you human, Hermione,” he says, eyes narrowed. “There’s no shame in being afraid and not being able to save the world—”

“So, what do you propose, Malfoy?” she hisses. “We just sit in our room, wait to be beckoned, let Ron simply rot?” Her hand’s returned to the railing, her knuckles turning white.

He rolls his eyes. “Stop being so—” he presses his fingers to his temples “—bloody  _ Gryffindor _ about it. I’m just trying to say it’s okay to not always be brave. To care about yourself every once in a while.” 

Her lips are pursed, but she nods. “I don’t like feeling that there’s nothing I can do,” she says eventually. 

A part of him wants to argue more, to explain why and how precisely they have no power. He wants to watch her fight, even if it’s  _ him _ she’s fighting. “So what do you want to do?” he asks evenly.

She takes a deep breath and gestures down. “Let’s go see him.”

They’re lucky; when they reach the landing, there are no Death Eaters in sight. Still, Hermione’s tense; her gaze darting around the space.

“Does it look familiar?” he asks

She nods. “Yes.” Her voice cracks. “Do you know where he is?”

Draco points to the right. “I’m assuming he’s down this way.” He starts to lead them but she grabs his elbow, stopping him.

“What about the Death Eaters?” she whispers.

He stares at her hand, her fingers digging into his skin, clutching him like she had the railing moments earlier. “Did you always have a Death Eater around when you were down here?” he asks quietly, looking up at her.

She swallows and shakes her head.

“Exactly. Pucey and the others will stop by, but for the most part no one wants to spend any more time than necessary in this shithole,” he explains.

She nods, one by one removing her fingers from his arm.

They reach the end of the hallway, finding Weasley curled up in the back corner of a dingy cell.

Hermione runs up to the cell, audibly exhaling, her shoulders relaxing. “Ron,” she says, her voice echoing throughout the hallway. She clutches at the bars of the cell, her body pressed to the metal.

Draco stands against the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest. 

“‘Mione?” Weasley groans softly, slowly unravelling. It’s painful to watch; it takes him three tries to stand up, as though he’s been kept immobile for so long he’s forgotten how. But he stumbles his way to her, his dirt covered hands wrapping around hers. He looks terrible; his face is covered in dried blood and bruises. He favors one leg, the other dangling uselessly off to the side. But he looks at Hermione in a way Draco can’t quite name..

Draco swallows down a small lump that’s formed in the back of his throat.

“What are you doing here?” Weasley asks her.

Hermione slides her hands through the bars, pressing her fingertips to Ron’s face, threading her fingers through his hair. “I had to come see you,” she whispers.

Draco doesn’t want to watch this but struggles to look away.

“Are you alright?” Weasley manages to cup her cheek, brushing her face with his thumb.

She shuts her eyes and leans against his hand. “I’m okay. It’s not too terrible for me. I’m just worried about you.”

Weasley shakes his head and swallows. “Don’t worry about me, I’m fine.”

Hermione clicks her tongue. “How can you say that? Look what they’ve done to you!” Her eyes cut over him, lingering on his limp leg.

Weasley smiles slightly. “I’m fine as long as I know you’re okay,” he says softly. 

She lets out a groan. “Don’t say that. It’s unfair.” 

They’ve somehow managed to press their foreheads together, between the cold metal bars.

“I heard about what happened. With Malfoy and the bond.” His tone is flat, but Draco can hear the hints of anger seeping through.

Hermione holds Weasley’s neck, her thumbs brushing his chin. “I’m fine,” she reiterates. “He’s not so bad.”

Weasley laughs. “Malfoy’s not so bad?” he asks incredulously.

She nods towards Draco, and Weasley’s face tightens immediately. Hermione notices and chastises him. “He’s the one who helped me come down here. He’s had it just as bad as us. Worse possibly.”

Weasley doesn’t say anything, simply keeps his eyes narrowed and nods stiffly at Draco, before returning his attention to Hermione.

“I’m so sorry, Hermione,” Weasley murmurs so softly that Draco barely hears it. He’s relaxed, his fingers now buried in Hermione’s hair, his nose a hair’s breaths from hers.

“Me too, Ron,” she breaths. She manages to pull him to her, angling her face to press her lips to his through the bars. Weasley’s arms snake around her sides; he’s clutching her for dear life, pulling her to him.

Draco swallows, his mouth gone dry at the sight of them, at the sounds of their breaths and smacking lips. He sucks in a breath and turns to face the wall, trying to temper his erratic heartbeat.

“I’ll be back soon,” Hermione promises Weasley.

* * *

When they finally get back to their room, Draco grabs a bottle of whiskey and asks her: “Was it worth it?” He takes a long sip, shutting his eyes for a moment as he relishes the burn in his throat.

She’s quiet, walking slowly to the window seat where she pulls  _ The Odyssey _ from a hidden nook. “It was,” she says, attempting to smile. “Thank you.” 

She puts the book down and walks towards him, stopping just inches away. This close, Draco remembers the way she kissed Weasley, how they grabbed at each other.

Now, standing inches from him, she looks at Draco, pressing onto her toes and kissing him lightly on the cheek, her lips grazing the puffy scar tissue that marks him.

He holds his breath when she walks away, taking a seat and fingering through her book. 

He takes a drink and tries his best to ignore the heat that radiates from where her lips touched him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always to my amazing beta, PTWritesmore!
> 
> You can find me fumbling through Tumblr @canttouchthis87.
> 
> I appreciate any and all comments/emotions/gifs!

**Author's Note:**

> I appreciate any and all comments and thoughts.
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr @[canttouchthis87](https://canttouchthis87.tumblr.com/).


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